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Original Essays | April 11, 2014

Paul Laudiero: IMG Shit Rough Draft



I was sitting in a British and Irish romantic drama class my last semester in college when the idea for Shit Rough Drafts hit me. I was working... Continue »
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1 Burnside Mystery- A to Z

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The Night Following

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The Night Following Cover

ISBN13: 9780385341189
ISBN10: 0385341180
Condition: Standard
Dustjacket: Standard
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Excerpt

Something tells me its important not to look dangerous. You would think Id be beyond it by this time, the old dread of making scenes, but I do want to get it done quietly, with the niceties observed. With some respect for finer feelings, though whose exactly its hard to say at this point. If I could be sure of that, if I could be sure theyd take me with an attitude of courteous regret, of sorrow even, that reflects my own, Id do it today. I would.

My hair and shoes are a little unfortunate but I could make myself tidy. I could practice the proper face in a mirror first. Theres not much I can do about the bones around my eyes that have a bluish, knuckly look about them now, but I think I could upturn my face so it resembled the mask expected of reasonable women entering this supposedly balanced and amiable chapter of middle age. I could clear my throat and imitate the rounded, sprightly cadences of such womens voices and saywhat?

Suppose for instance I said, in that singing-out manner, Oh, excuse me! Could you help? Im afraid something has happened.

As if Id dropped a jar at the checkout. Would that be the correct thing?

There must be a right way and a wrong way, as there is for everything. I believe turning up at a police station might be customary, insofar as my particular circumstances are customary. But police stations arent in obvious places anymore and I could waste all day looking for one. Or I could dial 999, although call boxes arent in obvious places anymore, either. And they would ask me whats happened because how else are they to know who to sendpolice, ambulance, or fire engineand I couldnt begin to go into it all on the telephone. But what is the emergency, theyll insist. All I could tell them is that I think I am. I may be the emergency. Its true that I would be emerging. I would be appearing unexpectedly after a spell of concealment. Surely I must be the emergency. What else could I say? That theres been an accident?

Once they saw I wasnt dangerous, I suppose for a time at least theyd prefer to think of me as sick. Indeed, I could just walk into a hospital. That worked before, after a fashion. I could just walk into a hospital, and nobody would ask if I actually believed I could ever find help there for what afflicts me.

The truth is Im neither sick nor dangerous. Im merely displaced. Not that that makes me unique. Youve seen me, or someone like me, anywhere out-of-the-way and out of season, run-down, closing down and in decline, though I may have escaped notice unless you happened to catch me in a small space between thoughts of your own. You will have seen me in odd, deserted places: a woman alone on a bridge, or standing by the roadside at a strange and hazardous point where weeds are sprouting, perhaps just loitering near an inexplicably derelict bus stop. Ill remind you of loneliness or old age, or that winters setting in.

But most often Ill be in restless places, the passing points of departure and arrival between various somewheres. Im the one apart and hesitant in the waiting rooms of stations, under the arc lights of ticket halls and in the corner booths, hovering at turnstiles and gates, never quite joining queues nor scanning information boards, yet never unaware of the human traffic. I stay in by the wall, sidestepping the tide of those in genuine and deliberate transit, dazed yet somehow impervious, lost but not utterly bewildered. I drift just outside the echoes and thrums of journeys that are not mine, the endings and beginnings of missions, diversions, pilgrimages, expeditions. I observe lives unlike mine, full of imperative planned destinations, and I envy people this apparent conviction that their myriad tiny events, their moving toward events yet to be, are of some importance. Neither a proper impetus to travel nor a true purpose in remaining where I am falls my way. I lack reasons either to go or to wait, and this looks like failure in me.

Not that I am at all disgraceful. I am never drunk. I dont mutter. I dont carry my belongings in a bundle. It may be stained and tatty but I do have luggage, and I tend also to have an address, albeit its always temporary. I manage to keep out of hostels, mostly. Once a day I endeavor to eat at a table, wherever theres a bargain (jumbo platter, hot drink, £3.99) and whether or not its a proper mealtime. Also once a day Ill spend up to an hour nibbling on most of a sandwich and then wrap and pocket the crusts for later. Im a hoarder, not a scavenger; I admit I never spend money on a paper (and actually it suits me not to read the news before its old and discarded) but I would not dream of polishing off abandoned cups of coffee. Its true that Im not above helping myself to forgotten gloves and scarves. Once in winter I took a mans coat, left on a bench.

So my vagrancy is unspectacular. I wear a taint of rationing, thats all. I have the thready, ashamed look of a reduced person who assumes there is worse reduction to come, who lingers until the last minute where its warmest before boarding the final bus or train, or who walks away from the dark station as the grilles rattle down because nobody waits for her in the evenings.

But tomorrow, though its hard for me to speak loud enough for you to hear, Ill try again. Ill take a sly, off-center interest in your moments of parting and greeting, look too closely at your clothes, the magazine you carry. Your polite glance when you ask if the seat next to me is free Ill take as an invitation.

Yes! Though its none too clean.

No. Oh well, itll do.

Im overglad to be spoken to, so that far too soon and whether you replied this way or not, Ill turn to you with a remark too intricate, an anecdote too unlikely and revelatory. Yes, the pigeons here are awful, arent they? I met a woman once who got worms off a bench, from the droppings, she said. Filthy, it was. Much worse than this! After that she wouldnt sit anywhere in public without spreading the seat with newspaper first. Once she stood an entire night because she hadnt got any. But you cant win, can you, because that played merry hell with her veins, which was worse than the worms. Or so she claimed.

And youll look away. Youll dread that anyone might overhear and think something in you encouraged the likes of me to babble to you in this manner, in a hurrying voice and staring straight at your eyes, using the sincere and zealous hand gestures of a person who expects to be disbelieved or motioned to shut up before her story is finished.

I dont blame you. Ill watch you walk away just as I might have been about to ask if you knew where the nearest police station is, or if there is a telephone nearby, or a hospital. I know Im unsettling. Maybe its because I know something you dont, though it secures me no advantage. Its only the knowledge that some other knowledge eludes me. Its nothing more than an awareness of questions that the happenstance of some lives and not othersmine, say, and not yoursposes for some people and not for others.

Such as, where do I pick up the story of a life that should be over, but isnt? If events have halted a lifes narrative as utterly as death itself, how do I go on as if I believed in mere continuation, never mind solace and amends? You wont know. So I wont detain you by saying, Oh, excuse me! Could you help? Im afraid something has happened.

I wont call after you to tell you how weary I am, Ill settle back and wait out another day. To pass the time, from somewhere in my baggage Ill bring out bundles of thumbed papers secured under rubber bands and Ill fret over ordering and reordering them, rereading this or that grubby old letter as if it might contain something new. And Ill sink into wondering again, asking myself the same questions and finding them still unanswerable.

27 Cardigan Avenue

living room

8th May

Dear Ruth

Were the flowers satisfactory? I just got white ones, you know Im no good with colors. Were they the right thing?

Writing this isnt my idea its Caroles. You dont know Carole.

Well cant think of anything else for now.

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Rowena, March 22, 2008 (view all comments by Rowena)
A homeless woman walks the streets, remembering. A spill on the seat of her husband's car, a search for a tissue, and she finds a condom wrapper.Driving home she hits and kills a bicycling woman, picks up the woman's scattered papers and drives away. The story unfolds.The bereft husband, who knows little about his wife's writing until he begins to read the novel she has written. the parallel story of the killer who becomes another person.
Morag Joss, author of Puccini's Ghost and other gripping novels, has done it again.
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Product Details

ISBN:
9780385341189
Author:
Joss, Morag
Publisher:
Delacorte Press
Subject:
General
Subject:
Suspense
Subject:
Death
Subject:
Loss (psychology)
Subject:
Married people
Subject:
General Fiction
Copyright:
Publication Date:
20080226
Binding:
Hardback
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Pages:
368
Dimensions:
9.39x6.30x1.24 in. 1.25 lbs.

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Related Subjects

Fiction and Poetry » Mystery » A to Z
Fiction and Poetry » Popular Fiction » Suspense

The Night Following Used Hardcover
0 stars - 0 reviews
$15.50 In Stock
Product details 368 pages Delacorte Press - English 9780385341189 Reviews:
"Publishers Weekly Review" by , "Distracted by the daffodil-flocked Wiltshire countryside speeding past her, or perhaps by the condom wrapper she has found in her husband's car, the unnamed doctor's wife plows into the doomed bicyclist — shattering several lives and launching a haunting journey that should burnish the reputation of Joss (Half Broken Things, which won the CWA's Silver Dagger Award) as one of Britain's most original crafters of psychological suspense. The guilt-ridden hit-and-run driver becomes increasingly obsessed with the victim, recently retired English teacher Ruth Mitchell, and Ruth's devastated widower, Arthur. Providing emotional contrast are the notes Arthur leaves for Ruth and excerpts from The Cold and the Beauty and the Dark, the slow-paced multigenerational saga Ruth was bringing to her writing group on the fateful day. As the narrator finds herself irresistibly drawn to the Mitchells' home, a nightly witness to Arthur's decline, boundaries begin to blur. Increasingly, her flashbacks to her own family history begin eerily to mirror the clan in Ruth's manuscript. But, Joss asks provocatively, who are any of us apart from the stories we choose to believe — those we create and those we appropriate?" Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) (Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.)
"Review" by , "Joss begins her psychological vivisection where other suspense novelists leave off. The results are extraordinary."
"Review" by , "Suspense comes from figuring out who the narrator is and how she is going to cope with her guilt and leave the periphery of life to which she has condemned herself."
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